


On Edge

by FlowingRiverAshes



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Brat Jaskier, Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dreams, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Geralt also has a knife kink, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier POV, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Knifeplay, Light BDSM, Love Confessions, M/M, Massage, Mild Painplay, Realization, Roach Has the Brain Cell (The Witcher), Singing, Size Difference, Smut, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Swordplay, Tenderness, Undercover as a Couple, big hands, brief Yennefer, but for using them, but like, consensual drug use, in the whiny way, not for long, not the subby way, rape threat, that's my favorite tag, with non-consensual effects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28566810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowingRiverAshes/pseuds/FlowingRiverAshes
Summary: Jaskier has tried many things in bed, and in life in general, but never in his life has he wanted to be on the receiving end of a blade. That is, until he kind of does, and kind of hates himself for it.Geralt couldn't be more thrilled to figure it out, even if he is incredibly dense and it takes him a while (and some close calls)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 98





	1. Ache

"Geralt, can we  _ please  _ stop?” Even I could hear the whining tone in my voice, but the ache in my legs and feet left me far from the realm of caring. The road was hard and painfully rocky from the draught that had plagued the lands around White Orchard for a few months now and, though I didn’t regret coming with him, I was starting to resent his Witcher stamina and training.

As usual, the only thing to answer my plea was silence. He’d stopped grunting in response to my complaints years ago, and stopped using his words only a month after Posada, which left me more often than not in an annoyingly quiet atmosphere. I tried my best to fill it with songs and conversation, but silence was all I ever got back. My lute strap dug into my shoulder and I winced. I’d spent a good night’s earning’s on a padded cushion for my shoulder, but so much walking meant that it wore through in no time and ended up being thrown away after two months. My bruised heels ached and I felt the urge to just sit down, in the middle of the path, until Geralt stopped.

He wouldn’t stop, though. He’d keep going on and out of sight, to wherever it was he was headed, glad to be rid of me finally.

“Can you make it another mile?”

His gravelly voice cut through my rather melancholy thoughts and I jolted back to the present, shocked. Gold eyes met mine and held them calmly. 

“What?” I asked, rather lamely, and he rolled them impressively. 

“I said, can you walk another mile?”

“What do you take me for, a pansy? Of course!” I replied indignantly, choosing to ignore that I had just been begging him to stop. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards briefly, the corner of his eye crinkled just a little, and suddenly my feet didn’t hurt so much. I could have walked for days under that look.

“Then keep up,” he grumbled, normal grouchy expression solidly back in place. Beside him, Roach tossed her head in agreement, bumping his shoulder affectionately with her nose. It was weirdly cute and I found myself smiling despite the ache in my legs creeping back to the forefront of my mind.

That last mile was probably the worst one of my life and it was with great relief that I flopped into the soft grass of the clearing, not even caring about the bedroll still strapped to Roach. I could have slept right there with ease if Geralt hadn’t nudged me with his foot.

“Yes, dear?” I asked sarcastically, cracking one eye open.

“Are you going to help me set up camp, or should I assume that you’ve been struck lame?”

“After twenty years, he decides he’s a comedian,” I declared to the trees. None of them laughed. “My legs work fine, better than fine actually. I’m just resting for a moment.”

“Good. Then you can set up camp while I practice,” he replied, deadpan. There was laughter in his eyes, I could see it in their telltale gleam, but I hated him too much in that moment to care.

He was across the clearing before I could protest, shaking his shoulders in what I could only assume was a silent chuckle. Fuck him, honestly. 

My limbs gave mighty creaks as I lifted myself up from the ground, and a soft groan of pain escaped my mouth. While we hadn’t gone particularly far, it was springtime and I was out of shape from the winter despite my best efforts. Training doesn’t quite simulate weeks of rough travel and camping well enough to be effective. 

Geralt watched me from across the clearing as he carefully stripped off his armor, laying it gently in a pile. After he was done warming up, he would clean and inspect it just as carefully and set it aside for the next morning, but for now it didn’t matter as much as the task ahead of him.

I slowly set up camp, wincing every time I moved wrong but keeping my eyes on my work. Behind me came soft grunts of concentration and the occasional thud of a blade sinking into wood. Soon enough, the fire was built and I turned to ask Geralt to light it with  Igni when my breath caught in my throat and I sat down, hard.

He had stripped down to nothing but those stupid leather pants he likes so much. Thick muscles bunched and flexed as he worked through his positions, but for once they didn’t matter so much. In each hand rested a sword, one silver, one steel, flashing dangerously with the setting sun. Their dance of death mesmerized me until I was barely aware of my surroundings, watching Geralt move so gracefully he might have been a dancer in a past life.

He looked up briefly and met my eyes, and I felt my heart freeze in my chest. His eyes were almost glowing, pupils mere slits in the seas of gold. His white hair had come loose from the tie and hung down around his face, framing a strong jaw that desperately needed a shave and a full mouth set in a growl of exertion. 

Fear coursed through my body at the sight, for the first time since meeting him. In that moment I could understand why townsfolk were so terrified of him, and my instincts screamed at me to run away. The feeling was replaced by confusion just as quickly—the eyes and blades terrified me, but it was just Geralt. He would never injure me, at least not willingly. Not with swords.

But he  _ could.  _ The blades were wickedly sharp and heavy, held as though they were feathers in his strong arms. He could kill me faster than a heartbeat,  _ but it was Geralt.  _ And  Melitele’s sweet tits, did he look beautiful.

His pupils widened just a bit and his face relaxed into almost... sadness? Resignation? 

“Are you scared of me, Jaskier?”

His question startled me in more ways than one and I blinked at him several times.

“I... No,” I replied finally. 

“I could smell your fear. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. You don’t scare me. I’ve just never seen you like this before.”

He snorted and lowered the blades. In the dim light, he looked like a god. “You watch me fight all the time.”

I swallowed hard, trying to process the things swirling in my head.  _ Not like this, not looking like you do, not so vulnerable, not when you look at me like that, not... _

“Using both swords?” my mouth supplied without my permission. He raised an eyebrow, looking down at the blades in his hands.

“ Vesemir told me that my ambidexterity was weak over the winter. I’ve started training with both swords to keep my skills sharp.”

I nodded, trying to work around the rising realization in my chest, and gestured to the pile of wood by my side. A quick movement of his fingers lit it immediately and the warmth against my side was grounding, welcome. I moved to stand and immediately regretted it, gritting my teeth hard and instead moving gingerly on my hands and knees to my bedroll.

Geralt retrieved his armor and sat on the other side of the fire, occasionally glancing up at me as if he wanted to say something. As for me, I was quiet. Weird, I know, but my lute held no interest to me in that moment. All I could think about was the almost-feral look on Geralt’s face and the way his swords had glinted in the sunlight.

“Jaskier,” he said finally, setting aside the last piece of his armor. Sometime during my  musings, he had donned a simple black shirt, which contrasted sharply with his pale skin. 

I looked up and hummed in response, too lost in thought for words.

“Catch,” he said, and tossed something across the fire. I caught it easily and examined it. It was a tin of some kind, with a snake wrapped around a staff stamped into the lid. “It’s a muscle relaxer.” The statement was soft, almost apologetic, and music to my ears. “It should take the ache away.”

“Thank fucking  Melitele ,” I sighed, stripping down to my underclothes and rubbing the mint-smelling salve into my skin. Immediately, warmth spread through my muscles and the ache subsided. Geralt watched me from across the flames, eyes flickering with the firelight, face completely unreadable. “And thank you,” I added when I was finished, placing the lid back on and shrugging back into my trousers and chemise. 

He hummed back, appearing content for the time being. Feeling much better, I laid down on the rough fabric and closed my eyes, letting myself drift into sleep.

_ “Jaskier,” a soft, gravelly voice murmured. I opened my eyes to find myself standing in the clearing, facing Geralt. That same unhinged look as earlier twisted his features and this time, I wasn’t scared. “Jaskier, why aren’t you scared of me?” _

_ “Geralt--” I turned away, trying to walk back to camp, but I was stopped by two strong arms wrapping around me. One brought the steel blade flush to my throat, the cold edge burning as it pressed into my skin, and the other used the silver blade to press firmly into my groin. If I moved, I was skewered. _

_ His bare chest against my back burned like fire and I felt my face growing hot. _

_ “You wouldn’t hurt me,” I said finally, answering his question and issuing a challenge in the same breath. As close as he was, he had to have heard my heart pounding like mad in my chest, had to have smelled my arousal rising in me like a traitor. The cold metal pushed just a little harder into my neck and I stilled, trembling. _

_ “Oh, Jask...” His words were whispered, breathed against my throat like a prayer. “Don’t you want me to? Don’t you like my swords?” _

I snapped awake with a gasp and sat straight up, hands flying to my throat as the dream-touch of the sword faded from my skin. What the actual fuck was that? What had just happened?

A quick shift of my legs told me everything I needed to know about my reaction to the dream, and I flopped back down, still breathing harshly. I was rock hard, painfully so, and there was nothing I could do about it without admitting to myself that maybe, just maybe, I had a thing for Geralt and his swords. Fucking damn it.


	2. Gasp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: a little aggressive language implying rape, no actual actions or descriptions. This one is a bit rough.

“Jaskier, for the last time, be fucking quiet,” Geralt hissed, clapping a leather-clad hand over my mouth. My witty retort died in my throat as something rustled softly in the undergrowth a few meters ahead of us. His amber eyes raked over my face, silently making sure I’d actually listen to him this time, before he carefully removed his hand and slowly reached for one of the swords on his back.

His hand had barely touched the hilt when the foliage exploded in a tangle of greasy hair and muscled limbs. Before I could react, there was an arm around my chest and a knife to my throat, pressing so hard that I could barely breathe. Before me, Geralt lay sprawled across the forest floor, stunned by a harsh blow to the head. The bandit grinned and hefted the dangerously heavy club over his shoulder, eyeing us appreciatively.

“A Witcher and a bard. Quite the pair,  Jorgund will be pleased,” he rasped. The thug holding on to me chuckled in my ear, sending chills racing down my spine. 

“Aw, do we have to give ‘ em up? They’re so pretty,” he purred, licking a nasty stripe up the side of my neck. I must have flinched, because his grip tightened and the serrated blade dug deeper into my neck. The man who’d knocked out Geralt, the leader I assumed, rolled his eyes and whistled. Three more raggedy men jumped out from their hiding places and quickly bound Geralt’s hands and feet after removing the wicked blades from his back. 

“You know we have to, sooner or later, or it’s our hides he takes. That don’t mean we can’t have a little fun with them beforehand, though.”

“You’re the boss, Corbyn. I want the little songbird, though.” The words growled against my neck made my blood run cold and I shut my eyes, willing myself not to panic. This would, after all, be the worst place to go crazy. 

“Fine by me, Rax. I’ll take the white one,” Corbyn responded gleefully, nudging Geralt with his foot.

The other men picked him up roughly, slinging him between them like a heavy cargo sack instead of a man, and we began the trek back to wherever their camp was. The blade at my throat carried a different weight behind it, dangerous and tense and more than willing to gut me like a fish the instant I opened my mouth. I struggled to remain upright between Rax’s bruising grip and the rough undergrowth of the foliage—if I tripped, I was a dead man. Luckily, the camp was not far, and the knife at my throat vanished in favor of calloused hands around my wrists, binding them tightly with rope. 

Geralt was dumped unceremoniously by a log that appeared to be used as a bench, and I was forced down beside him when the binding was finished. I nudged him carefully with my foot, eyes on the bandits, until I felt him stir gently.

“Geralt, wake up,” I whispered. He did not open his eyes. “Please wake up, I can’t do this by myself.”

“I thought I told you to shut up,” he grumbled back, almost silently, and I suppressed a grin. The day Geralt wasn’t sarcastic in the face of danger was the day we’d die. 

“Shutting up now, dear heart,” I hummed. His eyebrows bunched up at the pet name but he did not respond. Across the small campfire, Rax and Corbyn appeared to be in animated discussion with someone I could barely see. From the looks of their armor, at least, they appeared to be in charge of this motley crew.

After what seemed like ages, and everyone else in the camp staring at us like fresh meat, the discussion ended and the two men approached, looking very pleased with themselves. 

“Well, well, boys. It seems you’ll fetch a higher price than we expected. The famous White Wolf and his bardling, Dandelion. What a lovely surprise.”

Ah, fuck. I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat and Rax winked at me.

“We get free rein with you for the night. After that, you’re on a slave ship to  Skellige , and we get to retire early.”

Rax reached down and grabbed my by the collar, hauling me to my feet with a predatory gleam in his eye. “You’ll sing for me tonight, won’t you, Dandelion?”

I nodded, afraid to speak for once. These men were not like any bandits we’d run across before, and for good reason. Slavers were an entirely different breed and my charm would not work here.

“Maybe once you’ve had those pretty lips wrapped around my cock, you’ll answer me properly,” he spat in a sudden display of rage, backhanding me viciously and driving me to my knees.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Geralt watching me, golden eyes blazing with fury but unable to help me.

“Geralt--” I gasped, but was silenced with Rax’s hand around my throat, lifting me back to my feet with a gasp for air.

“You can speak, then. I’ll teach you proper manners by morning.”

The tent he dragged me to was small, barely big enough for one man, let alone two. My back hit the ground hard and what little breath was left in my lungs left my body in a whoosh. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat as Rax towered over me, grinning like a madman as he began to undress.

“You’re so pretty, songbird. You know that? I’ve fucked plenty of bards before but you, you take the cake.”

I closed my eyes and choked back a sob. “Please, I’ll sing whatever you want--”

“I want you so sing my name around my dick in your mouth,” he growled in response. “Your talent is famous, surely you can multitask.”

A soft gasp followed his statement, followed by a hard thud. My heart leapt into my throat and I stifled a scream as a blade buried itself in the dirt a hair’s breadth away from my head and a heavy, hard body collapsed on top of me.

“Jask...” a breath of warm air hit my face and I let out the tears that had been threatening to spill as I opened my eyes. Geralt was propped heavily on the sword thrust tip-down into the earth and, though much of his weight rested on my hips and chest, he seemed to be struggling to keep the rest of it from crushing me. “Jask... Please tell me you’re okay.”

His voice was ragged and harsh. No golden eyes met mine—this time, they were black from lid to lid, the depth of midnight contained in their gaze. Black veins spider-webbed out from his eyes and across his paler-than-usual face. He looked exhausted and... restrained.

“I’m--” I swallowed hard around the tears, slowly becoming aware of the mild warmth of his body and the glimmer of the steel by my head. “I’m okay, Geralt. I’m okay. Did you drink a potion?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t have needed it, but I had to hurry,” he rumbled through clenched teeth. This potion was one of the nastier ones, giving him an intense boost in strength and bloodlust, and I suddenly became acutely aware of my wrists bound and trapped above my head. “Did he...” A leather glove wiped the tears from the sides of my face, searching for any damage.

The question and action were gentle, surprisingly so for the rage he must be suppressing, and the tenderness of them made me smile thinly. “No, dear heart. He didn’t touch me, I’m okay. My hands, though--”

He leaned forward across my chest so that our foreheads nearly touched, black eyes staring unseeingly into mine. My breath caught in my throat and the chill that Rax had placed in my blood was chased out with fire the strength of a thousand suns. The soft  shhhk of a blade drew my attention and his free hand drifted up towards my hands, a small steel dagger gleaming in his bloodied fingers. Of course. He couldn’t reach my arms in a sitting position without leaning.

The metal scraped feather-light across my skin and the rope parted with no resistance. His hand was shaking ever so slightly, the only sign that he perhaps wasn’t as in control as he wanted to be, but I still couldn’t help the noise that escaped my traitorous throat. It was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper and entirely embarrassing. 

The blade stayed against my wrist, and he did not move from the sword that gleamed so dangerously near my face. The metal was ice cold but could have been entirely molten for the sparks it sent skittering across my skin. He could, if he wanted to, do whatever he wanted... “Geralt,” I began, my throat suddenly dry, and he blinked, breaking the spell and sitting up with a huff of breath. “Are you okay?”

“Need to sleep it off,” he grumbled, standing with some effort and reaching out a hand to help me up. 

“You and me both,” I muttered ruefully, kicking at Rax’s corpse and straightening my doublet before following him out of the camp and back to where we’d left Roach. This one would be in my dreams for a while.


	3. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this is a little more intense than I intended. I guess I want Geralt to mess with him a little before he admits what he really wants, but not actually because we all know Geralt is 99% oblivious. Don't mind the length, this chapter had me vibing.

I tugged anxiously on the silvery grey silk of my brand new doublet, squinting at the mirror for any last minute adjustments that needed to be made. Elihal had done a wonderful job of crafting the outfit, as usual: matching black trousers with silver embroidery, a white chemise and soft grey boots completed the ensemble, much less flashy than I was used to but striking in their own way.

In the room behind me, Geralt was grumbling about something and was greeted with  Elihal’s bright laughter. I smiled in spite of myself—Geralt may be a stubborn bastard, but it was hard to refuse the handsome elf anything if they really wanted it.

I ran a hand through my hair, letting it fall back in its usual mop, before glancing up to meet the elf’s eyes. They were still laughing gently as they approached and smoothed out the back of the doublet with a practiced hand. “Your friend is, ah... interesting,” they grinned. 

I snorted. “Yes, that’s definitely the word for it.”

“He looks dashing, Dandelion. You won’t believe it. I even had a barber friend of mine come in and clean him up.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so interested, Eli?”

They winked at me slyly. “Oh, no reason. You definitely don’t look at him like a lovesick puppy or anything.”

I groaned and turned back to the mirror, ignoring the flush I could feel spreading across my face. “You’re an absolute minx, you know that?”

“That’s my pride and joy, love. He should be out any second, he was fiddling with his swords.”

As they spoke, the door behind me swung open. I was almost too terrified to look, having never seen Geralt in formal wear that actually fit properly. Instead, I snuck a glance in the mirror, and you could have knocked me over with a feather. His long white hair was washed and brushed, tied neatly behind his head in his signature style. In the afternoon sunlight it almost glowed. Warm gold eyes met mine in the mirror, looking more amused than annoyed.

I turned to survey him properly. His outfit was almost the exact opposite of mine. A white chemise stretched across the broad muscles and shoulder of his chest, mostly hidden by a black silk doublet that tucked at his narrow waist. Silver embroidery graced the sleeves, made slightly shorter than normal to not restrict sword movement. Grey trousers with black and silver detailing hugged his toned legs and led into soft, supple dark grey boots. Across his back were two new black sheaths, in which rested his swords.

I think my jaw was dropped, but I can’t say I cared at that point. He looked ethereal, too good to be true... godlike, for the sake of blasphemy. His eyes traced over my body, taking everything in without a single expression to tell me what he thought. He had to have heard my heart pounding out of my chest, but he didn’t react. Finally, he made eye contact, and his half smile was genuine. “Not bad, master elf. You finally made a subtle man out of him.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I replied, finding my voice at last. “For the record, this was my idea.  Elihal wanted us to be in gold.”

He huffed gently in amusement and turned to the elf to pay. 

“No, absolutely not, Master Geralt. Dandelion has been a loyal customer for many years, his patronage has been invaluable. Consider this a gift.”  Elihal threw a wink at me, and I stuck my tongue out at them over Geralt’s shoulder. “Don’t forget your masks.”

I ran a thumb across the mask in my hand, a beautifully wrought, delicate silver wolf, and nodded. Geralt lifted his, a much more angular and rough version of the same one I carried. Tonight, we were posing as a couple, and there would be no mistaking us now.

The entire horse ride to the  Vegelbud estate was silent, both of us seemingly lost in thought. I rode behind Geralt on Roach, arms wrapped around his waist to keep balanced, since we couldn’t have people thinking Geralt’s “husband” walked all the way there. My face pressed into his back, right above the two sheaths. I could smell the blade oil, pungent and yet somehow sweet, mingling with the refreshingly clean scent of Geralt himself. 

“Jaskier?”

“Hm?” I replied, broken out of my thoughts by the rumble of my name against my cheek. 

“Thank you.” Geralt’s voice was gruff and the words sounded rusty from misuse, but I tried very hard to swallow my answering grin.

“For what?”

“Agreeing to do this with me. I know it’s... less than ideal, for you.”

“Geralt, what are you on about, dear heart?” I chuckled, giving his waist a squeeze. He coughed slightly and I knew that if I could see his face, his cheeks would be ever so slightly pink.

“You... you like to be at the center of these things. You’re the bard,” he said lamely, and I stifled a giggle. “You entertain, make the party lively. You don’t sulk in the shadows with me.”

“That’s because you never come to ‘these things’ with me,” I said. “And when you do, it’s one I’ve been hired at.”

“Regardless, I... thank you.”

He seemed uncomfortable, stiff under my hands, so I let it go. “Anytime, Geralt. Anytime.”

The gates to the estate appeared over the crest of the hill and he sighed in relief. The guards saw no issue with our invitations and invited us in, pointing us to the stable. Not many had ridden in on their own horses, having rented carriages that would be back at dawn to collect the exhausted nobles.

Roach gently bumped into my back as I made to tie her lead, making me laugh. Her nose poked around my pockets for the sugar cubes I usually carried, and when she found  none she nudged me again harder. Geralt shook his head. “You spoil her.”

“She deserves to be spoiled,” I shrugged with a smile.  _ Next time, Roach. I promise.  _

The Witcher held out his mask, the silver gleaming in the torchlight. “What...?” I asked, confused, and he rolled his eyes.

“The strings are too small for me to tie,” he replied, and I shook my head ruefully. The mask was heavy and solid in my hand and he ducked his head so that I could tie it in place. His hair was soft under my fingers, almost dangerously so, and I tied the delicate strings as quickly as I could to avoid lingering awkwardly.

His head lifted again and molten gold shone through the holes in the mask, boring into me with the force of arrows on a battlefield. My knees turned to jelly and I had to resist grabbing the post beside me for stability. 

Without a word, he took my mask from my hand and held it up to my face, the touch of his fingers burning imprints into my skin. “Hold it,” he murmured, and I obeyed without question.

He reached around and began slowly and carefully tying the strings, taking his time to get the knots correct and not tangle them in my hair. His strong arms braced themselves on my shoulders and I found my hands shaking as they held the silver piece in place. My heart felt like a galloping racehorse and my face was flushed.

Finally he finished and I dropped my hands, feeling almost lightheaded. I moved to step back when his hand came up under my chin and lifted my eyes to his. I froze, the breath in my lungs forced out in a rush. His other hand adjusted my mask slightly and lingered just a second too long. 

“Come along, Jaskier,” he said finally, so softly it was almost not there, and his hands dropped from my face as he turned to exit. “Meet me by the entrance.”

I waited until he was out of sight before I collapsed against Roach, trembling so hard I could barely think. “ Melitile’s fucking tits,” I gasped. “What in the fuck was that?”

Roach, of course, had no answer, but the toss of her head and the comforting warmth of her body were nice anyway. I stood and straightened my jacket, giving her one last pat before jogging out of the stable to meet Geralt. He was waiting for me as promised, holding what looked to be a pleasant conversation with a man in a mouse mask. I recognized the signature golden-yellow tunic of a druid and nodded in greeting as I approached. 

The breath was knocked out of me a second time as Geralt, without breaking conversation, reached out and looped an arm around my waist, drawing me to his side and holding me there. Son of a whore. I’d forgotten our disguise already. He was absolutely not about to get the best of me, and it was this spite that led me to stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek.

The druid snorted at the shocked look on Geralt’s face. “Oh, come on, Witcher, if he is to be your husband for the night you mustn’t look so surprised when he acts the part.”

Ah, so this must be  Moussack , our contact. As I opened my mouth for a greeting, fanfare sounded from inside, and the druid bowed gracefully and departed.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” Geralt asked as we walked towards the huge ornate gate that marked the entrance to the estate. 

“What? I’m acting the part,” I replied, still blushing. “So are you.”

“...right.”

~~~~~~

The midnight bell rang, and my head was spinning from slightly too much wine. Geralt supported me easily with one arm, holding me to his side as though I might shatter any minute. His warmth, though less than a regular man’s, was comforting nonetheless, and I found myself more relaxed than I had been in weeks. I could live here, against him, nose filled with the smell of clean steel and pine and rain, face buried in soft fabric...

“ Jask ,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft. I blinked and moved a bit to look up at him, surprised to see a real, full smile on his face. Maybe he was drunk too.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“Are you smelling me?” He was laughing now, the shocked kind of laugh that came so rarely to him and made me smile.

“Maybe a little. You smell really good. Clean. Like the woods, and your swords,” I admitted. The wine had loosened my tongue, but I didn’t mind.

I jumped as he pressed his lips to my forehead, looking for all the world like a doting husband. “You’re drunk, Jaskier.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t smell good,” I pouted.

“No, it just means you’ll regret saying that in the morning. How do you even know what my swords smell like, anyway?”

“I think about them a lot,” I retorted, and then snapped my mouth shut as I realized what I’d said. “ Y’know what, I think I am drunk. I’m going to get a drink of water.”

Geralt’s expression under the mask was unreadable, but his mouth was... almost slack, like he was surprised. 

Son of ten, no, twenty whores. I’d really opened my mouth this time. The cool water helped settle my thoughts into place and I took a deep breath and headed back to the bench where we’d been sitting. To my surprise, he was no longer there.

I scanned the crowd, willing myself to stay calm, and eventually spotted him dancing with a beautiful red-headed woman in a turquoise gown and red fox mask. I sat down and watched them dance, letting my thoughts drift to nothing in particular (and definitely not how gracefully my best friend danced, or how close he held her), aided in my empty-headedness by the strong  Novigrad wine.

_ I was tugged back out of my thoughts by a hand reaching into my field of view. Blinking, I sat up and stared at Geralt, who looked like he was finally enjoying himself. “Dance with me,  _ _ Jask _ _?” he asked softly, and fuck, how could I say no? _

_ I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet and into the stability of his chest, arms wrapping around me and pulling me into the movements of the dance effortlessly. Holy shit. _

_ Every inch of my body burned like I was on fire, and for the life of me I couldn’t look away from the piercing gold eyes staring at me through the devilish wolf mask. He was graceful and fluid, something I never expected from a Witcher, and spun me as well as any of the other dancers. _

_ “Where did you learn to dance?” I asked, twirling beneath his outstretched arm and moving away, only to be tugged possessively back into position with my back against his chest. _

_ “Ah, you know. Picked it up here and there,” he murmured, warm breath skating across the skin of my neck and making me shiver. I felt him grin briefly before I was spun back to face him.  _

_ “Where?” I demanded, stepping in time. I wouldn’t be outdone by a Witcher on the dance floor. _

_ “Jaskier, I’m over a century old,” he chuckled, “you learn a few things after a while.” _

_ “Like what?” _

_ The pupils of his eyes were slits, like a cat, a sign of danger to anyone else but me. He would never, could never be a danger to me. “Like how to wield a blade, whether to kill a monster or subdue a man. To get submission at the end of a sword without spilling a drop of blood.” He was growling, holy fucking  _ _ Melitile _ _ , the fucker  _ _ knew  _ _ and he was saying these things without caring that we were on a mission, technically, though the man we were supposed to be keeping an eye on had turned up dead an hour previously. _

_ “Geralt, dear heart--” even to my own ears, I sounded strangled, like I couldn’t get enough air.  _

_ “Yes, Julian?”  _

_ My  _ _ name,  _ _ of all things, whispered in my ear like the most succulent of treats, was too much, and my knees buckled. His arms tightened around me and to anyone watching, I simply relaxed, but the damage was done. The slits in his eyes were gone, the threat was past, but my racing heart couldn’t accept that. _

_ “I’m sorry, Jaskier,” he said quickly, once I regained footing. He sounded like he genuinely meant it, and I’m sure he did, but I didn’t want him to mean it. _

_ “I... I can’t... I just... oh, for fuck’s sake, Geralt,” I groaned, putting my forehead on his chest in time to feel a soft chuckle. “Fuck you, you know. Doing this on a night where everything is pretend. You suck.” _

_ He pressed a kiss to the top of my head and released me from the dance, allowing me to walk away. As much as it hurt to do so, I left the maze as fast as my legs could carry me, still shaking. Roach was still in her stall, munching happily on some oats provided by one of the stable boys, and I sank to my knees in the hay as soon as I reached her. _

_ “Roach, your master is an asshole,” I sighed, feeling the painfully hard remnants of Geralt’s words straining against the fabric of my trousers. I wouldn’t disgrace myself by taking care of it here, but fucking hell, I was a mess. _

_ “ _ _ Jask _ _?” came a soft call from the entrance to the stable, and I sighed.  _

_ “Nope,” I replied sarcastically, and heavy footfalls came to a stop next to me. My Witcher squatted down beside me, looking appropriately ashamed. _

_ “Hey, listen... I’m sorry.” _

_ I snorted. “Are you? You seemed pretty smug about it back there.” _

_ “I thought it was a joke,” he admitted. “I didn’t think you actually had a thing for my swords.” _

_ “I don’t,” I said quickly, only to be met with ice cold steel against my throat. My softening erection returned with a vengeance and I swallowed hard around the ringing in my ears. _

_ “You do,” he teased, holding the heavy blade like it weighed nothing.  _

_ “Your swords do nothing for me,” I ground out, clenching my jaw. He raised an eyebrow. With one swift movement, I found myself standing, his steel sword at my throat and the little dagger he’d cut me free with weeks ago dangled in front of my eyes. _

_ “Oh, I see,” he murmured in my ear, all traces of teasing gone. The knife slowly made its way to the back of my head. I could feel the tip of it dragging against my scalp and I shivered, both chilled from the night air and burning up from the desire that coursed through my veins. The sharp edge tugged at the strings of my mask and the silver piece fell, leaving my face exposed. _

_ “It was never just the swords, was it?” _

_ The blade dug harder into my throat, preventing an answer. _

_ “The blade is only as good as the one who wields it, right, Julian?” _

I sat straight up, gasping for air and trying to adjust my eyes to the bright torch light of the party. The soothing scent of Geralt filled my nostrils and I relaxed a little, finding myself again tucked tightly into his side, protected and safe.

He glanced down at me and smirked a little. “Having a good dream, Jask?”

“Wha...?” I slurred, trying to sit up and failing. I’d become a lot heavier all of a sudden. 

“You kept mumbling my name. And something about swords.”

“Oh. It was nothing interesting,” I lied, knowing he could probably smell the truth and not caring. It was just a dream. 


	4. Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've used this song for a fic before, but it's so beautiful and I think it fits the mood of this scene well. It's "Two" by Sleeping at Last if anyone wants to listen along!  
> Also, THIS CHAPTER IS SO LONG WHOOPS. It's nothing like what I wanted it to be, but there will be more spice next time I promise. I got really into the fluff.

"When we get out of here, I’m going to sew your mouth shut,” Geralt grumbled, squirming against the thick ropes that held us together. “And then I’m going to leave you in a bog somewhere.” 

“Mm,” I sighed, head throbbing from the bruise I knew was forming on the side of my head. “Sounds good. Can you stop wiggling, please? My head hurts.” 

He immediately stopped. “Are you okay?” 

“Probably have a concussion, but I’m fine,” I replied, leaning back and letting my head rest against the back of his neck. The worn leather of his armor made for a shit pillow, but anything was better than making me sit straight up. I could hear him rolling his eyes, but he stayed still. “Any ideas on how to avoid being sacrificed?” 

“Escape.” 

“Eloquent as always, dear heart. You have such a way with words.” 

I felt more than heard him snort. To my surprise, he leaned his own head back to rest on the top of mine. If we hadn’t been tied together waiting to be handed to a leshen as a pretty little “leave us alone” gift, I would have said it was a nice intimate moment. 

“Leshens fucking suck,” he said after a while. I’d begun to fall asleep and jolted awake at that. 

“What?” 

“They suck. They’re hard to kill and almost as hard to run away from.” 

I blinked a few times to clear my vaguely blurry vision. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“You need to stay awake if you have a concussion, and you’re always bothering me for stories about my monster hunts, so...” He almost sounded sheepish, like he hadn’t expected me to ask. 

“I don’t bother you, Geralt,” I teased, letting my head loll to the side. “I’m curious by nature.” 

“You do, in fact, bother me,” he chuckled. “But it’s alright. Do you want to hear about the last leshen I fought?” 

“Of course. What kind of question is that?” 

His voice rumbled deep in his chest as he spoke and the vibrations against my back were comforting. I felt something warm and fuzzy growing in my chest as he told the tale of being accosted in a forest in Velen with only a vial of Swallow to help him in the fight. I tried to fight the feeling, but it spread through my body and down into the tips of my fingers and toes and I found myself smiling lazily and closing my eyes. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said sharply, and I jumped back into consciousness. “What was the last thing I said?” 

“Uh... it turned into a bunch of birds?” 

He sighed and shook his head. “That was a while ago. Are you alright?” 

“Mostly. My vision’s a bit blurry and I’m tired as all hell. My brain feels like it’s full of holes,” I replied, straining at the ropes holding my wrists to Geralt’s. 

His palms were rough against mine and I shivered a little. My fingers brushed a silhouette under my doublet and I grinned widely, the sleepiness dispelled instantly by adrenaline. Carefully, I reached back and hooked a finger around one of Geralt’s, pulling it closer. He sighed and shook his head. “Now isn’t the time to hold hands, Jask.” 

I pouted a bit, but held his hand firm. The finger in mine curled up to press against my palm and my heart skipped a beat as the rest of his hand followed, wrapping around my hand in a touching—if not a little crushing—gesture. My face grew warm and I knew he had to have heard my heart rate pick up, but like he said, this was no time for that. 

I tugged his hand forward until his fingers met the shape on my back, and I felt his whole arm tense up. “Is that...?” 

“You bet. I didn’t realize I still had it.” 

“Hold absolutely still, Jask,” he said quietly, releasing my hand. I nodded and closed my eyes, steeling myself for what I knew was coming. Calloused fingers carefully inched under my doublet, pulling up the edges of my shirt and exposing my bare back to the chilled evening air. I jumped as his fingers touched my skin, too high to reach the hilt of the thin blade tucked into the belt of my trousers. 

“Lower,” I whispered, gritting my teeth against the sparks running up and down my spine. His hands trailed lower, but not much, roaming my skin as if they had all the freedom in the world. I kept my breathing measured through my nose, eyes closed and head bowed. Of course I would react like this while we were in mortal danger. 

“Geralt...” I winced at how weak the word sounded. 

“I’m trying, Jask,” he replied. I swear to Melitele, that better not be a smile I heard in his voice. I felt the brief urge to throw myself out a window until the breath left my lungs in a strangled whimper as he leaned back and spread his entire hand over my lower back. 

His fingertips pressed down firmly, as if making sure I wouldn’t move away, and I unconsciously leaned into the touch. Gods, his hand was huge. I could feel where the hilts of his swords rested in his palm as it rasped across the sensitive skin. 

“Geralt, get the fucking knife,” I growled, terrified to open my eyes. He didn’t answer or move, waiting for something. His hand was burning a hole in my body and I really hated that he was tied up at that moment. “Please,” I whispered after a minute. 

With a fluid ease, the hand disappeared and the knife slipped from its sheath without another touch. Bastard. In seconds, my Witcher stood before me, stone-faced as ever and holding the tiny knife. He crouched in front of me and we made eye contact. 

“I barely touched you,” he said, his eyes smiling where his mouth wasn’t. I scowled. 

“Oh, shut up and get me out of here already. You suck.” 

He cut the rope around my ankles and stood, hauling me clumsily to my feet. 

“What the fuck? My wrists are still a problem.” 

A hand slapped over my hand for the second time in as many months, this time with amused gold eyes boring into mine. “Shut up for a bit, bard. This makes sure you won’t do anything stupid while I go kill that leshen.” 

I gaped at him, positive I’d just heard him wrong. There was no way he’d leave me tied up in a cult’s cave while he went to fight this demon-monster-shapeshifter-whatever thing by himself. As if reading my thoughts, he lowered his hand. 

“I’ll come back for you. I promise.” 

Picking his swords up from the floor across the cave, he turned back to face me, this time with an uncharacteristic toothy grin that showed off his unnaturally sharp canines. “And besides. I think you want to savor it when I cut you loose.” 

He vanished as I spluttered, face red with embarrassment. Fucker. 

Time passed like molasses, dripping slowly from one minute into the next as I paced to keep myself awake. I couldn’t tell what time it was, nor did I really want to know. The cave and area outside were dead silent and I was almost afraid to breathe to break that silence. 

Finally, though, the cold got to me, and I sat against the back wall, shivering hard. My head throbbed painfully and my vision was so blurry I couldn’t see anything but vague shapes. My shoulders ached painfully from being held behind me for so long. Even though part of me knew I’d love what Geralt had in store, the rest of me cried out for mercy. It was only hot when I wasn’t alone. 

I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember falling, like I’d tripped, and the cool stone feeling as soft as the finest down beds. I couldn’t feel my aching arms anymore and that was concerning, or it least it should have been if it didn’t feel so nice. The next thing I knew was Geralt shaking me, saying something I could barely hear over the ringing in my ears. 

“Jaskier!” That sounded like my name. I opened my eyes and squinted, baffled by the blurriness in front of me. “Jask, wake up. Please.” 

“M’awake,” I slurred, and he sighed heavily in relief. 

“Small miracles. Come on, we have to go.” He scooped me up in his arms as if I were a child. My head rested between his neck and his shoulder, my hair brushing the hilts of his swords, and I smiled. My brain felt like a puddle, sloshing around in my skull and retaining nothing. 

“You’re strong,” I murmured as he walked me out into blazing sunlight, immediately scrunching my eyes closed. 

“I have to be, otherwise you’d be fucked,” he replied softly. 

“Nah, you’d figure it out. You wouldn’t let me get hurt too bad,” I said affectionately. “You’re my Witcher, after all.” 

He huffed a laugh and squeezed me slightly. “I guess that makes you my bard, doesn’t it?” 

I hummed in response and he said nothing else on the long walk back to the inn. There were astonishingly no people to be seen, but I was too tired and in too much pain to ask why. Kicking the door of our room open, he carefully laid me on my side on the bed, facing the wall. I heard the soft noise of a blade and grumbled in protest. 

He hesitated, rough hand on my arm. “Jask, I know what this does to you and that you’re in no position to enjoy it, but your hands are purple.” 

My face turned bright red, I could feel it even through the headache, and I said nothing. In a quick motion, without touching my skin, the ropes fell away and my arms were free. I pulled them around to the front and groaned, pain shooting up my shoulders. “Oh, son of a whore, that hurts,” I gasped, the pain clearing my head just a little. Strong hands rolled me onto my back and propped me up on a pillow. 

“I have a potion here that is safe for you to drink, but it’s just for your head,” Geralt said apologetically. His tone was unusually gentle, like he was actually worried about me for once. I smiled at the thought. 

“Whatever you say, Nurse Witcher,” I replied, earning a surprised chuckle from my companion. The potion was brought to my mouth and one large hand supported my head as I drank and almost choked at the sickly sweet taste. 

Within seconds of it hitting my stomach, my vision cleared and the throbbing dulled to a faint ache. “Thank Melitele, I can actually see now.” 

The Witcher made a sound of contentment and turned back to the saddlebag he’d been rummaging in, giving me ample time to look at him. He looked like hell. His armor was shredded in places, missing in others, and coated in dirt and blood. I noticed with some disgust that I was also covered in it, since he’d been holding me, and mentally consigned the clothes I was wearing to the scrap pile. 

He turned back and I bit back a gasp. A long gash marred his torso, stretching from his shoulder to his hip, and smaller ones ran up his neck to his jaw. “Fucking hell,” I whispered, and he rolled his eyes. 

“I’m fine, it’s just--” 

“If you say just a scratch, I will hit you.” 

He grinned. “You and what functioning arms, bard?” 

I tried lifting them and my head hit the wall with the force it took not to yell. “Alright, you got me there, but when I’m healed up I will absolutely deck you.” 

He brandished the tin of muscle relaxing ointment and raised an eyebrow. “Peace offering?” 

I scowled for a minute before relenting. “Okay, fine. You still suck.” 

He sat on the edge of the bed and stripped off his gloves, the only thing on him unscathed from his fight. Probably because he hadn’t been wearing them, I realized wryly. Moving carefully, he stripped me of my doublet and my shirt, leaving my chest bare and cold. He scooped some of the fragrant ointment and began at my hands, gently massaging it into my fingers and the muscles of my palms. 

I swear my eyes rolled up into my head. The warm tingling of the ointment sinking in and working was magical, but the rasps of the callouses on his fingers was another kind of magic altogether, one that made my toes curl and my chest ache. 

He moved on to my wrists, working so gently that I could barely connect the action with my Witcher. A sigh escaped my lips, and he glanced up to meet my eyes. His fingers stilled for a moment and we just stared at each other, soaking in the moment. His hands were warm, unusually so. I never wanted them to leave me. He ducked his head, silver hair falling in whisps around his face, and after a second I realized it was almost out of shyness. 

With the force of a sucker punch, I knew what that warm feeling in my gut was. Fucking damn it all. His hands working up my arms provided a welcome distraction from the guilt and shame gnawing at me and I left myself get lost in the feeling. As he reached my shoulders, he carefully sat me up and I scooted forward, keeping my eyes closed. I couldn’t meet his eyes or he’d know. 

He sat behind me and began working the salve into the tense muscles of my shoulders and neck, making me shiver. The sensations were almost too much and I knew, I felt my arousal, but I would not move. His hands left my skin for a moment and against my better judgement, I looked back to see what was wrong. He was tying back his hair fully into a ponytail, face set in concentration, eyes boring into mine. My throat went dry and I blinked, mind suddenly blank. 

His fingers brushed along my jaw for a moment and then carefully turned my head back around, breaking my reverie and sending me tumbling back into my thoughts. Just because he was gentle with me did not mean I had to fall in love with him, it meant that I was abusing the friendship that he trusted precious few with, and that made me undeserving of it in the first place. 

As if he could hear me, Geralt’s hands stilled on my shoulders, resting lightly where they met my neck. “Stop thinking, Jaskier,” he murmured, making me jump at the fact that he’d leaned in so much closer. 

“But--” 

“No buts. Stop thinking.” 

“Geralt, I can’t. It doesn’t work that way; my mind can’t just shut off. It’s always going a mile a minute,” I replied, a little frustrated. 

His thumbs rubbed little circles in my skin as he processed that. “Is that why you’re always singing?” 

I snorted. “Kind of. I am a bard, you know.” I felt him smile and relaxed just a little. “It makes the fast thoughts slow down so I can rest,” I admitted. 

“So sing.” 

“What? No, you hate it when I sing. A ‘pie with no filling’, if I remember right.” 

We both winced, remembering the djinn and the mess with Yennefer that had followed. Even though we hadn’t seen her for years after the mountain, Geralt’s words to me still rang in my head sometimes. 

“Sing, Jask. I don’t mind. It’s... it’s kind of grown on me.” The admission sounded strained, like it was something he didn’t want to say. 

Ignoring the flutter in my chest, I sighed dramatically and turned to say something but was disarmed by the look on his face, utterly genuine and slightly pink across his cheeks. 

I closed my mouth and swallowed hard, turning back to the front, trying to think of every song I’d ever written. 

_“_ _Sweetheart, you look a little tired_   
_When did you last eat?_   
_Come in and make yourself right at home_   
_Stay as long as you need_   
_Tell me, is something wrong?_   
_If something's wrong, you can count on me_   
_You know I'll take my heart clean apart if it helps yours beat.”_

I stuttered over the last word as I felt him take a heaving breath in through his nose, as if he were trying to refrain from something. The encouraging circles from his thumbs made me want to continue, and as I did his hands began trailing lightly over my skin in tiny patterns, sending lightning racing through my blood. 

_“It's okay if you can't find the words_   
_Let me take your coat_   
_And this weight off of your shoulders.”_

“Jask, please stop.” His voice was soft, barely audible, and I stopped immediately, tensing up. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked, fearing the worst. 

“Nothing, the song is beautiful, it’s just...” 

Silence hung between us like a thick curtain that I was too afraid to tear. With a sigh, he released my shoulders and stood, putting some distance between us. I felt cold and empty without him by me, to my own shame, but that was nothing compared to the look on his face. 

“Help me? If you can?” he asked, eyes cast to the floor. My arms felt like new after his ministrations and I stood instantly, crossing the floor in a single step to reach for the buckles on his armor. He didn’t fight or try to help, instead standing still and letting me work. As I undid the various straps and knots, I found myself singing again, and he closed his eyes. 

_“Like a force to be reckoned with_   
_A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss_   
_I will love you with every single thing I have_   
_Like a tidal wave, I'll make a mess_   
_Or calm waters, if that serves you best_   
_I will love you without any strings attached._   
_It's okay if you can't catch your breath_   
_You can take the oxygen straight out of my own chest.”_

As the armor fell away, I took the hem of his shirt and tugged upwards, silently asking permission. He lifted his arms and I pulled it over his head. Any other day I would have been thrilled to be this close, doing what I was, being here with him. But this was something unfamiliar and strange and new. Geralt stood shirtless, stone-still, as I fetched the wash basin and a few cloths. I began cleaning the grime from his arms and torso, being careful of the nasty wounds. 

_“I know exactly how the rule goes_   
_Put my mask on first_   
_No, I don't want to talk about myself_   
_Tell me where it hurts_   
_I just want to build you up, build you up_   
_'Til_ _you're good as new_   
_And maybe one day I will get around to fixing myself too._   
_I don't even know where to start_   
_Already tired of trying to recall when it all fell apart_   
_I just want to love you, to love you, to love you well_   
_I just want to learn how, somehow, to be loved myself.”_

I lifted his chin gently and wiped the blood from his face. He opened his eyes and reached up to hold my hand in place, amber gold searching my gaze for something. “Keep singing?” he whispered, letting go after a moment. I nodded and put the cloth back in the now-disgusting water, fetching the suture kit from the saddlebag and preparing the needle for the large gash across his chest. As I began the stitches, I resumed. 

_“Like a force to be reckoned with_   
_A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss_   
_I will love you without any strings attached_   
_And what a privilege it is to love_   
_A great honor to hold you up_   
_Like a force to be reckoned with_   
_A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss_   
_I will love you with every single thing I have_   
_Like a tidal wave, I'll make a mess_   
_Or calm waters if that serves you best_   
_I will love you without any strings attached_   
_I will love you without a single string attached.”_

The last stitch was pulled taught and I cut the extra thread, ending the song on a soft note. Something wet hit the top of my head and I jumped, looking up to see Geralt watching me. There were tears in his golden eyes, but he didn’t seem to register that they were falling. I reached up and brushed one away in awe, making him twitch slightly. “What are you...” 

“You’re crying,” I replied, stunned at the moisture on my fingers. He reached up and wiped his other eye, staring at it with shock. “I didn’t know you could cry.” 

“I didn’t know I could either. The mutations were supposed to take that away.” 

We stood in silence for a second before he put his hand on my shoulder. “Thank you, Jask.” 

“For what?” 

“This. Helping me, being here. Being you.” 

I opened and closed my mouth, looking somewhat like a fish, before, reaching up and hugging him tightly. He huffed in surprise and stood there awkwardly for a second before wrapping his arms around me loosely. “You’ll never find me anywhere else, dear heart,” I replied earnestly, trying not to think too hard about how much bare skin was meeting mine. “And besides. Now that I know you like my singing, I’ll never leave.” 

He laughed and gave me a gentle squeeze. “You weren’t going to leave anyway.” 

I pulled away and faked indignance. “Who says?” 

“The blade kink.” 

Ah, fuck. 


	5. Cost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe the next chapter is the spiciest thing I've ever written and I am NOT sorry

The Oxenfurt market was busier than usual, bustling with people and overloading the senses in every way possible, which meant that the path Geralt could carve through a crowd was much more noticeable than usual. I followed in his wake, smiling and waving to people I recognized from the Academy and locals whose faces were unmistakable, but for once, no one waved back. I was given the same look of unsettled fear and outright disgust that was usually reserved for Geralt and I hated it.

We reached the apothecary at the end of the street and mercifully shut the doors on the slew of people looking at us, allowing me to breathe. Geralt was watching me, blank faced as ever, and then shrugged. “See what it’s like?”

“Yeah. Next time I see somebody do that, I’ll bash their head in with my lute,” I muttered, rubbing the strap that was slung across my chest.

“No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t, but none of that was fair or deserved.”

He shrugged, letting the black hood of his cloak fall from his head as he did. “Life isn’t fair, bard. This is the life you choose when you travel with a Witcher.”

Oh, not this fucking thing again. “Lucky for both of us, my songs are more loved than your rugged good looks, so I doubt I’ll be run out of town any time soon.”

The gorgeous elven woman behind the counter coughed gently, breaking us out of that lovely bit of banter. “How can I help you, gentlemen?” she asked calmly, not even batting an eye at the Witcher at her door. 

“We need ingredients, some of them rare,” Geralt said, stepping forward with a list of herbs and monster products. She scrutinized it with a practiced eye, nodding as she did.

“I see. Specter Oil, Necrophage Concoction, Tawny Owl, Swallow, Golden Oriole... you’re really running low.”

We both stared at her, too stunned to say a word. She grinned. “Oh, come on. This is the only well-stocked apothecary in this part of the continent, the next one is several weeks away in Crow’s Perch. I’ve seen my fair share of Witcher concoctions, and I keep the supplies for them well stocked.”

“Why?” I finally blurted out, still shocked that this woman seemed to know guarded Witcher secrets from memory. 

She winked. “Because, master bard, they don’t come cheap. A Witcher low in stock is a Witcher desperate with coin, and it’s made me a rich woman.”

Without another word, she slipped into the back room and emerged a few moments later with an armful of precisely labelled vials, jars and waxed parchment bags. “Here is everything on your list. I was generous with the measurements, as a thank you for the work you do.”

Geralt inspected the parcels, mouth set in a thin line the way it always was when he was thinking intensely about something. “How much for the lot?”

“1,349 crowns, please.”

I choked on  air, eyes wide. “You can’t be serious. That’s as much as I would pay for an entire new set of armor, and a new lute besides!”

“Then it’s just as well that you need neither, hm?” Her tone was cheerful but sharp, and Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed with suspicion. 

“We will find our stock elsewhere, the price is simply too high,” he said coldly. She sighed and collected the items, placing them on a shelf behind the counter and rolling up her sleeves.

“You know, they always say that,” she replied lightly, making a twisting motion with her hand. Behind us, the door locked and bolted. “I’m convinced that nobody knows the true value of what they’re asking for.”

“Being swindled by a faerie isn’t exactly indicative of that, ma’am,” he retorted, pushing me behind him with one arm and drawing his silver sword with the other. The faerie didn’t move, instead watching lazily as if we were some show being put on for her amusement.

“Geralt, something’s not right here,” I whispered, and he tapped my forearm with the hand still holding me back in a reassuring pattern. 

“Listen to your songbird, Witcher,” the woman sighed, rapping her sharp fingernails on the countertop. Immediately, my hands were bound behind me with a rope that had slithered up behind me like a snake and I was yanked backwards away from Geralt’s protective grip and slammed into a bookcase, sending stars across my vision.

Geralt made to step forward, but the floorboards under his feet had turned to quicksand, making an effective trap. “Either you buy what I have to sell, or I kill you. Refusing a good offer is just so rude,” the faerie hummed happily, setting the bundles back on the counter. “But I’ll tell you what. You’re both so pretty, and there are so few good bards and  Witchers left, I’ll let this all go for just a thousand crowns. How about that?”

The laughter in her voice died with her as the silver dagger protruded from her throat. I shuddered involuntarily at the thought of the precision and skill it must have taken to be able to make such a throw, and looked up after a moment to meet Geralt’s eyes. His face was stony, as usual in situations like this, but his eyes were twinkling. An unusual sight for him.

“What?” I demanded, struggling against the rope that had now gone stiff as a board. 

He shook his head, wrenching his feet from the now-firm floorboards. “Why is it, whenever we get into trouble, you’re always the one who ends up tied up and needing to be rescued?”

I blushed bright red and tried to hide it with a scowl. “Excuse me, not always. I’ll have you know those  leshen -worshipping idiots had you bound too.”

“I’m a Witcher, having me bound doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely does when you didn’t do shit to try and break us out of it,” I retorted. He pulled the  silver blade from the faerie’s throat and wiped it on his pants with a sigh.

“Oh, I did plenty. I just didn’t do what you wanted.”

I gaped at him in horror as he collected the packages from the counter and loaded them into the satchel we’d brought for the purpose, looking pleased with himself.

“What the fuck, Geralt,” I finally managed, and he chuckled.

“If you’re done being petulant, I’ll cut you loose.”

I swallowed hard and let my gaze hit the floor, suddenly embarrassed. “Fine,” I muttered. “But you still suck.”

I was expecting him to go around and cut me loose from the back, where the angle would have been easier, but I was surprised when he stepped up to me and brought our chests flush together. I blushed even harder and looked away, feeling amused gold eyes watching me. He reached around and ran his hands down my arms, searching for the rope that bound my wrists and leaving trails of tingling sensations in his wake. I swallowed and tried not to shake.

“Lean forward,  Jask ,” he said softly, tenderly, and I did without question, letting my head rest between his neck and shoulder and breathing deeply. He didn’t smell as clean as he had at the masquerade, but the distinct scent of pine and blade oil shone through everything else. 

“Yknow,” he said, allowing the blade in his hand to flick forward and press against the soft skin of my wrists. “You once told me something while you were drunk.” His other hand came up to rest in the middle of my back, holding me to him in almost an embrace.

I tried my hardest not to make any shameful noises as my legs turned to jelly. “I’ve said a lot of things drunk, Geralt, you’ll have to be more specific.”

He chuckled and pressed the blade down harder. “You told me that you think about my swords a lot. And that I smell good.”

“I-- I mean, you do, and I do, but I don’t see how--” My sentence was cut off as he leaned down and bit me, hard, right above the collar of my doublet. I could feel the sharp press of those deadly canines sending heat straight to my groin.

A guttural cry escaped my mouth as he kissed over the mark and severed the ropes cleanly, backing away with a look of smug triumph on his face. “I think about them a lot too, Jask.”

The door clicked softly shut behind him and it was all I could do not to sink to the floor in shock. What the fuck?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS YALL I'll be in horny jail if you need me. Please comment and let me know how I did, your comments make my day!

Waking up to an unfamiliar bed was, in and of itself, more normal than not. I’d spent my fair share of time in the homes of beautiful women, whether romantic partners or ladies of the night, and just as much time in the homes of beautiful men. Inns, healer’s huts, castle rooms, I’ve been in them all. 

However, all of them were by choice and did not result in me being tied to a bed frame completely naked, begging the smirking woman I’d followed home to at least leave me my lute. 

“Oh, come on,” I said with frustration, pulling hard on the restraints around my wrists. To her credit, the ropes were silk and did not hurt, but the pressure was uncomfortable and so was the vulnerability. “I don’t care if you take everything else, please just leave me my lute. Its only value is sentimental, it won’t fetch you a good price.” 

The woman picked it up and examined it critically, blonde hair spilling in a waterfall over her shoulders. Intense blue eyes lifted to meet mine and she rolled them, annoyed. “Alright, fine. But in return for the lute...” she winked and collected both my items and hers. “You get to stay here until someone finds you. I booked this room for three days, so I hope for your sake you’re found quickly.” 

I struggled helplessly against the silken ropes as she finished dressing and left, closing the door firmly behind her. “Fucking damn it,” I sighed, relaxing against the pillows. The rooms in this particular inn were soundproofed, as she’d gleefully informed me an hour earlier, so screaming was useless. 

My unclothed erection was still standing tall, courtesy of the performance enhancing drugs she’d given me. I chuckled briefly, imagining the annoyance on Geralt’s face when he heard how stupid I’d been, and tried to adjust my hips to be more comfortable in the wake of the aching arousal. This was going to suck. 

Hours passed, or maybe minutes, I wasn’t sure. The drugs continued to work as well as they were designed to, slowly becoming more and more painful until I couldn’t stop the tears from falling and pitiful noises from escaping my throat. My abdomen felt tight, like a music box wound up too far, and my thighs ached from the tension of trying to keep still. Any movement, any friction, made my predicament ten times worse. 

The silk ropes around my wrists and ankles had outworn their softness, instead rough and unforgiving due to the oversensitivity of my skin. Whatever it was she’d given me, it was more than just performance enhancing. If I didn’t get out of here soon, I was going to spontaneously combust. 

Unbidden, the image of my dream at the masquerade popped into my head. I remembered the warm press of Geralt’s body, the icy metal of his swords, the dragging sensation of the dagger as it sliced the strings of my mask and dropped it to the hay. Just the thought made my head swim and I felt like I couldn’t breathe, suddenly drowning in a wave of lust stronger than anything I’d ever felt before. The feeling of his mouth on my throat, his hands on my arms, the chill of the dagger at my wrists from the faerie’s shop dragged after them, molten memories reminding me how deep I was in a hole I could not escape from. 

I could feel my cock dripping, leaking onto the chilled skin of my abdomen as I thrashed, trying to release even one limb to stop the burning in my veins. 

A knock sounded on the door, making me freeze, tears streaming down my face. “Help me,” I croaked, and it swung open to reveal a very pissed-off Geralt holding my clothes in a bundle under one arm. 

The anger slid off his face, replaced by complete and utter shock. Behind him, the door swung shut of its own accord, the noise deafening in the silence between us. 

“Jask... what...” 

“She drugged me with some kind of aphrodisiac and robbed me,” I gasped, head pounding from lack of oxygen. “Please untie me, I think I’m going to die.” 

He didn’t say a word, just stood there and stared at me. Through the drugged haze in my brain, I realized with a shot of heat that his eyes were wandering, tracing my body and the ropes that held me with an inscrutable golden gaze. 

“Geralt, please,” I choked, my shoulders spasming. The clothes he held dropped to the floor and my head lolled back onto the pillow as he approached, looking apprehensive. 

“Do you want me to untie you?” he asked softly. I nodded, still crying, biting my lip so hard it bled. “Or,” he said, something wicked entering those catlike eyes. His pupils narrowed to slits and my heartbeat stuttered in my chest. “Do you want me to cut you loose?” 

Oh, son of an actual fucking whore. My cock strained even harder and I whimpered embarrassingly. He knew. He fucking knew, like for real. I should have realized after the shit he pulled with the faerie, but I hadn’t thought about it much for my own sanity. “Do... do you want to?” 

He grinned, looking almost feral, and fire raced across my skin as he leaned down so his nose was almost brushing mine. “I would like nothing more, Julian. Pick your poison—knife or sword?” 

“F-fucking Melitele, I can’t--” My name felt like a slap to the face and a punch to the gut all at once, taking away my air. 

“Jaskier.” His tone was sharp and commanding and I jerked against the ropes. “Knife or sword?” 

“Knife,” I gasped, “Knife first. Too close for swords.” 

The soft shhhk of a blade being unsheathed drew my attention to Geralt’s hands, those huge, gentle hands that had once rubbed the pain of a cult from my shoulders, one of which now held a simple and razor sharp dagger. 

“As you wish,” he murmured, so quiet I felt more than heard it. I shivered hard and clenched my thighs, trying not to embarrass myself anymore than I already had. He laid the dagger on the sheets and carefully, one finger at a time, removed his thick leather gloves, amber eyes locked on my face as he did. 

I swallowed hard and tried hard to breathe, traitorous mind thinking of all the places those hands could be. Bare, calloused fingers picked up the knife and twirled it lightly, letting the blade catch the light of the dim lamp as it spun. “If it’s too much, tell me to stop,” he said, and I nodded quickly, knowing that even if it was I would never, ever tell him to stop. 

His free hand reached up and gripped my jaw, forcing me to make eye contact. He looked surprisingly genuine as he spoke. “I mean it. Promise me you will tell me to stop before you get hurt.” 

“I promise,” I replied hoarsely, and he let go of my face in favor of trailing his hand down my throat and splaying his fingers across my chest. I know he could feel the racing of my heart, feel how much I’d thought of something like this, but at that particular moment I couldn’t care less. 

Cold steel met the flesh of my underarm, just the tip, dragging a lazy, winding path and leaving lightning in it’s wake. I cried out as it reached my wrist and dug into the sensitive skin, cock aching and begging for attention. “Be still,” Geralt warned softly as he worked the blade gently under the cloth. 

I was shaking hard from overstimulation, but by the gods this felt too good to ignore. The knife stilled and he waited patiently, the corners of his mouth twitching up a little as I choked out a harsh, “ _Please.”_

The silk parted like air and my arm fell to the pillows. I could feel tears in my hair, soaking into the cloth beneath my head, and I reached to stroke myself and try to relieve some of the unbearable pressure, but Geralt stopped me with a hand on my wrist. “I said, be still,” he repeated, and I forced my arm to lay against the sheets. 

He moved down the bed, allowing the hand on my chest to trail to my ribs, my stomach, my thigh, the tips of his fingers brushing barely against my swollen cock and forcing me to moan between clenched teeth. 

The wandering hand came to rest on my calf, supporting my leg with way more tenderness than the situation demanded. “She gave you one hell of a drug,” he murmured, letting his eyes roam my body as he absentmindedly played with the knife. “I wonder if you’d be this good for me sober.” 

“Gods, fuck, Geralt, I’ll be anything you want sober,” I snapped, my bound hand pulling hard at the rope. The knifepoint dug sharply into my ankle and I scrunched my eyes shut, the roaring of my pleasure dimming somewhat with the unexpected, unpleasant pain. 

“Dirty mouth,” was all he said, waiting for me to open my eyes before licking the bloodied tip of the knife clean, exposing the famous Witcher fangs as he did. Okay, so it was a little (a lot) hot. But now fear raced beside arousal in my blood, adding a delicious edge to the heat. The mess on my stomach was becoming a bit much and I couldn’t help the small sob that came from my throat. 

“Please, Geralt,” I begged. He smiled. 

“Please, what?” 

“Keep going,” I whispered, against my instincts. “I want to feel you, feel the blade. But please hurry... it hurts.” 

The rope around both ankles fell away with no resistance as his slitted eyes searched my face with concern. “Jask...” 

“I’m okay, Geralt, I promised. Please just fucking touch me,” I hissed. 

He smiled sharply and straightened, flipping the dagger in his hand. Before I could say a word, it flew through the air and landed with a soft thunk in the wood right next to my bound wrist, the cloth parting against it. 

My breath left my lungs like I’d been punched, and just as my brain began to process what had just happened, a flash of silver caught my eye and came to rest against my throat. Geralt’s silver sword, only used for monsters... and men who liked them, apparently. 

The edge pressed firmly into my neck and I froze, wide eyes locked with his. A familiar heat pooled in my stomach as he bent down again, this time letting his lips ghost tenderly against my forehead and not moving the sword as he spoke-- “Come for me, Julian.” His free hand came up to tangle in my hair, an unnecessary but very Geralt-like gesture of affection as he watched me come apart. 

I wish I could say I made a show of it, but I came untouched with a gasp and a whimper, the blade of a sword at my throat and the eyes of a Witcher gazing into mine. 

The blade vanished from my neck and I relaxed, drawing heaving breaths into my abused lungs. Gentle hands carefully checked my skin for damage and I jumped as I felt a gentle kiss pressed to the places where the blade had broken the skin on my wrist and ankle. He sat beside the bed and ran his hand through my hair, making me sigh appreciatively. 

“Thank you,” I whispered, drowsy with the after effects of the drug and the fantastic orgasm. 

He didn’t seem to hear me, lost as he was in thought. 

“Geralt?” 

He blinked and looked over at me, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Are you okay, Jask?” 

“I am,” I replied with a yawn. A strange tingling sensation crept through my limbs and I realized with a start that it was a craving, a need to be held. Hesitantly, I reached out and grabbed Geralt’s armor. “I... Come up here? Lay with me?” 

He rolled his eyes and stood, and for one terrible moment I thought he was going to leave. Then the armor hit the floor and he was climbing into the bed next to me, being careful not to jostle me too much. I used the balled up blanket to wipe the mess from my stomach and threw it into the corner, much to his disgust, before turning to face him. 

Up close, he was even more beautiful. A pale grey shadow dusted the proud jaw and cleft chin, full lips set in a smirk, and those eyes. Those fucking eyes. 

“Your eyes are beautiful,” I said shyly, and he blinked with surprise. 

“What?” 

“You heard me.” 

“I did, just... nobody thinks Witcher eyes are beautiful. They’re a killer’s eyes.” He sounded soft, almost defeated, and I scowled. 

“You are no killer, Geralt of Rivia. You could have killed me many times over the past few months, and yet you used your blades to save me. I--” I paused, and we stared at each other. He knew what I was going to say, though, he must have, because he cupped the side of my face with one hand and leaned in until our foreheads touched. 

“You saved me too, Jask,” he whispered, and then he was kissing me. Gods above, he was kissing me. His lips were chapped but warm and sent tingles racing down my spine, and I kissed him back with all I had. The kiss wasn’t heated, but it held promise, and it was that promise I’d hold on to forever. 


End file.
